Sunsets are not for smugglers
by bengalaas
Summary: After Kirkwall, Hawke and Isabela discover some unexpected side-effects to Anders' obsession. With a broken promise between them and a war raging around them it is not clear whether they'll ever find their happily ever after. On the other hand, maybe they're not that fond of sunsets anyway. (Now completed)
1. Intro

Life was the beginning and the end of each story. It gave birth to the people that would shape the history of Thedas, it provided the opportunities and the conditions, and then, when it all wound up in stories, with the heroes sailing off in the sunset, life just moved on.

Mages had listened to the retellings of how the whole city of Kirkwall had gone up in flames, how the chance of a compromise had been eliminated by Anders, an apostate healer, and by Champion Hawke, a mage who had never known the oppression of the Chantry. Mages had listened, the templars had not liked it, and the mages had risen in defiance. A bloody rebellion had swept Thedas.

But, as Red Garry would say, leaning on his garden fence and chewing on a straw, that was another world, another story. It might concern people in faraway places with magics and templars, but, apart from the occasional trouble with some misguided bandits, in the small village of Vantage life simply went on.

Even with all the Circles in Thedas annulled or gone apostate, there was still a silverite mine to be managed, a daughter to be raised and window shutters to be replaced. There were still pancakes to be had on Thursdays, the chant on Sundays and a mind-numbing boredom that always accompanied such calm and sensible life — every damn day from Monday to Sunday. Although, Mondays were a bit better — the militia training was on Mondays.

As the sun set behind the Frostbacks, Garry tore his eyes away from the dusty road leading up into the mountains and went inside where his housekeeper, miller's daughter Cadrine, was laying table for supper.

As always, it tasted like memories.

* * *

A/N: After reading one story too many about Hawke's familial bliss with Anders or Fenris, I was pondering what a happily ever after would be for Hawke and Isabela. Especially if Hawke backpedals after that first night together, resulting in a slightly broken romance... Anyways, big thanks to lilpumpkingirl who kindly reviewed this story! It's more or less finished in about 4 chapters, so I'll be adding them steadily. I hope you enjoy it! :)

Cover picture, characters and the world of Thedas (c) of BioWare, of course.


	2. Chapter 1

Garrett Hawke, the proud descendant of Houses Hawke and Amell, the infamous ex-Champion of Kirkwall and one of the most powerful force mages in the Free Marches, stumbled down the stairs of the rundown inn at Estwatch harbour and collapsed at an empty table. It was not very clean, but Hawke was beyond noticing. Taking a few breaths he called for ale.

Maker, what a mess. What an unprecedented, unholy, unpredictable mess he was in.

Considering this whole week, Hawke was not in the happiest of places right now. The explosion of the Chantry, killing Anders, killing Orsino… Fighting crazy Meredith with her crazy bronze statues, and then being shown the door, so to speak, of the city he had saved from the Qunari and poisons, and assassins, and blood mages, and what not. All his operations were based out of Kirkwall, large sums were invested there. And he had actually made a home there, a messy, shadowy home all for himself and a couple of servants, and all that was gone now.

But looking back, getting kicked out of Kirkwall had still been alright. Stressful and annoying, and he had been raging like a rabid mabari, but he knew he would get over it — after all, his whole life before settling in Lothering had mostly been spent on the road. He would have calmed down and sorted it all out.

On Isabela's ship, the _Wavedancer_, he had found a small resemblance of peace and finally let Anders' betrayal sink in. It was a fucked up situation, and Hawke could only hope that killing that self-righteous sewer rat and slightly tweaking the whole story would maybe, just maybe result in something the least bit constructive.

But now, to find out that the git had screwed him over not once, but _twice_, and not only him or Kirkwall, or mages in general, but that his negligence had hurt Isabela, his fickle, thieving, lying pirate queen…

Hawke gulped down half of the mug contents the moment the old lady innkeeper put it on his table. He almost choked on the ale, then wiped the foam in the sleeve of his robes and forced himself to take a deep breath. Usually it helped, but right now it seemed as helpful as spitting on a raging fire.

Of course, the rebel had been wrapped up in his glorious cause — so terribly wrapped up that in the last few weeks he had been virtually nowhere to be found. Of course, who would remember their appointments with shallow sluts when mages are being so severely mistreated?

Well, there she was now, smashing things in their room upstairs and creatively cursing all men in Thedas, apostate mages with knowledge of door locking glyphs in particular.

Hawke slumped on the table and desperately wished for his crate of moonshine bottles left back in Kirkwall. Ale just wouldn't cut it.

Although — nothing would. This was not something he could shrug off or walk away from. His feisty queen of blades was with child.

Blast and damnation. He couldn't think of a worse time or of worse potential parents. That is, if the child was his, which he wasn't sure of. As far as Isabela was concerned, he could never be sure of anything. That was simply the way things were between them and had been since the very beginning — pear-shaped.

It wasn't a relationship one could be proud of. Hawke wasn't. Nevertheless, Isabela was the only person who kept his head above the quicksand of bureaucracy that was Bone Pit ledgers, household accountancy, Merchant Guild meeting minutes dutifully ignored by Varric, Kirkwall politics and the boring duties of a Champion. Isabela was fun and she didn't need any looking after.

The three long years of her self-induced exile had tasted like cardboard.

When she had returned, well… He knew she valued her freedom and had been hurt in the past, and maybe loved the sea more than she loved (?) him, so he decided his feelings were his own business and simply enjoyed whatever she was willing to share with him.

And what must she be thinking now? That he did this intentionally, to tie her down? Was she hoping that he could somehow... solve this problem? He was no healer, but he did know his potions.

Hawke groaned and raised his head off the table. His mug was still half full, but the ale was too bitter.

Pushing back the bench, he stood up and walked out into the gathering darkness of early autumn. He urgently needed to pull himself together. He couldn't afford to continue pondering his sad relationship with the Rivaini, not when his remaining band of misfits would soon be back and definitely not when she was possibly plotting something desperate and stupid.

Hawke walked to the back of the inn where his friends wouldn't notice him and sat down on an overturned bucket behind some red-berried shrub. The backyard smelled nicer than the common room, and an added benefit was that from here he could keep an eye on Isabela's window.

Garrett had never expected to have kids, had never thought about it. He was an apostate, a smuggler and a fighter. For all he knew, he could be dead tomorrow — especially now, with the Kirkwall Chantry bent on vengeance and without the protection of his Champion status. He already was a dead man walking.

And what sort of a mother could Isabela possibly be, when her own had sold her into marriage for a goat? She had no idea what family meant, no patience, no temperance, no roof above her head to call her own. Andraste's knickers, she was a pirate! With a tendency to run off when things got difficult or complicated. How in the Void could either of them care for a child?!

So potion it is, right? They would continue on their merry way, have adventures, make coin and travel the world. Maybe exonerate the name of Hawke, or build an armada of tall ships and make the ocean tremble from shore to shore. It would be the same as in Kirkwall, only without Kirkwall. It could be a jolly good life, so long as it lasted.

Hawke seriously considered the idea. It was the only sensible solution, and Isabela would probably agree. They were not ready for this. Probably, they never would, but that was alright with Hawke. There was no place for a child in their lives. It was too dangerous, and their relationship was… Let's just say that it was held together by very fragile threads.

Alright, so what would he need? Hawke remembered discussing one particular potion with Solivitus once. Hawke sighed and started counting on his fingers. There was a variety of herbs he had listed somewhere in his journal — he could probably cross-check those with Merrill — a deathroot base, a small bit of lyrium… And then Solivitus had mentioned some spell.

Hawke frowned.

Vague images had suddenly started forming in his mind, like words appearing in a book where none had been before. He knew he had never seen that spell, had never performed it, but its torrents of energy were becoming familiar, new sensations were slowly gnawing through him. A pretty clear idea was forming in his head, insinuating itself in his nerves and muscles, soon to become as instinctive as a mind blast.

It felt strange, to learn a spell by simply thinking about it, but soon Hawke was sure that he would be able to cast it at will. That is, if he agreed to a simple little deal and–

Oh, blast and damnation, of course! The Fell Grimoire. Hawke cursed. He might have sworn to never use blood magic, but he had read the book. He had the knowledge, and a standing offer of possession.

Hawke jumped up and started pacing, blasting the damn shrubbery in the process.

He was so totally fucked. They both were.

If there was blood magic involved in that spell, there was no way he was doing it. What's more, there was no way he was letting Isabela find someone else to do it for her, not even Merrill. To rip the Veil as an unborn child dies at your hand… Damn, the stakes were high. The promise of power was intoxicating, it was staggering. No wonder Solivitus said this potion was used only by half-crazed hedge witches. As far as sex magic was concerned, prevention worked so much better than dealing with the consequences.

Hawke cursed again. Damn Anders and his patent methods! If the guy couldn't be relied upon to be around the following year, he could have at least incorporated some warning spell for when the treatment starts to wear off.

So what about non-magic alternatives? Wise women surely must know some solutions apart from falling down the stair or poisoning themselves to the brink of death.

Hawke vaguely remembered a girl in Lothering. She had been an orphan going to get married soon. Then, the young man had died, drowned in the river. After the man's family had kicked the girl out, she had apparently gone to a Chasind witch to remedy her impatience. Mother had said she died three days later. Bled to death.

Looking at Isabela's window, Hawke knew he would never forgive himself if something like that happened to his favourite pirate. To just imagine her dead or dying in a pool of blood, no mischievous flame in her eyes, no warmth in her velvety skin…

So this was it. There was no way out, no solution. They were both in over their heads — two of the least appropriate persons to ever raise a child, with a weird and largely dysfunctional relationship between them, a pirate and an apostate on the run. Hawke gulped.

The Maker definitely had a sick sense of humour.

* * *

Isabela's room was silent. Hawke removed the locking glyph, desperately hoping that she was still there. Maybe she had been furious enough to try and escape through the window while he was downstairs. Maybe Merrill had returned from their band's supply purchasing expedition around the town and brought herself straight to Isabela's room with that fancy teleportation trick of hers. Or maybe the pirate was seething there in silence, ready to smash his stupid brains in with a chamber pot.

He cautiously opened the door and peeked inside. "Isabela?"

His dark-haired Rivaini was sitting on the bed, head hung low. She was absent-mindedly playing with the broken chain of a surprisingly informative fertility amulet, and silent tears were running down her brown cheeks. Hawke felt a lump in his throat. He should have taken better care of her, brought Anders back from the Void itself, when she had needed him. His own carelessness had caused this, and now he was going to make her deal with his moral indigestion too.

"I can't do this Hawke," she whispered. "I just can't."

He sat down on the bed and gathered her in his arms. At times like these he was acutely aware how young she was under all her bravado, and how strong she was still.

"We're both in this together, Isabela," he murmured, slowly caressing her back.

"You don't even know if it's yours. I… got carried away some time ago," she sniffed. "I'm not sure when exactly that damn treatment wore off."

Hawke swallowed and glanced away from her.

"I know how you are," he said. "And I'm still behind you."

"You shouldn't be. I should have never returned with that book, and you should have never taken me back after those three years. Would've saved yourself a bunch of trouble."

"I can't afford breaking Merrill's heart, she'll summon something terrible to gut me," Hawke replied with a weak smile. He brushed his fingers through Isabela's thick, dark hair in an attempt to distract her from her self-loathing.

"Look. The way I see it," he continued, "if the kid turns out ginger and/or a mage, then it's mine. Statistically, it should. If not… Well, it's still yours. Same as Merrill came with some mirror obsession, and Varric came with a shitty brother. It doesn't matter, Isabela. Regardless of anything else that we have, we're friends and we're in this together. I know I can get you through this if you let me."

Isabela tore away from him and started pacing the room.

"So you won't get me out of this?"

Hawke hung his head and thought he felt a slight tremor in the Veil even at that one thought from Isabela. The promise of power was dizzying, and this time there was no Anders here to disapprovingly stare in his back. He had to take a steadying breath.

"I will, Seabird. I will," he said. "But not in the way you think. I'm sorry, but I can't do that."

"Well, I can't be a mother!" she shouted. "I just can't! Look at me! Can you see me cuddling with a baby? With a snotty kid at the helm of my ship, or in a pub fight? Worrying about some stomach bug while watching your back, picking locks and negotiating with Coterie? That is not possible! That is not me! I don't want it, and if you won't help me, I'll just find someone who will!"

"Isabela, don't you dare!" Hawke jumped up and advanced on her with a furious glint in his eyes. "I'm not saying this is my sweetest dream come true, but there it is, and we must work with what we have."

"It's a misunderstanding, is what it is!"

"It's a child!" He punched the wall near Isabela's head. "If you're so eager to get rid of it, then leave it with me when it's born, then go on your merry way and drink and fuck your life away! I've seen enough blood magic, I will not allow you to do this!"

"What does a simple potion have to do with- Aargh! You think I will suddenly regret it and years later come back to play family with you? Hawke, this is serious! This will destroy my life! I'm not mother material!"

"Well, this isn't just about you!" Hawke shouted back at her. "You have always done as you will, and I've never asked you anything. But this is where I draw the line, and if you want that spell so badly that you bolt on me again, then you're on your own, Isabela!"

"Again?!" she spat and jabbed a finger in his chest. "I came back! I risked my damned life for you!"

"You BOLTED on me! Forgiven or unforgiven, nothing will ever change that one simple fact! You thought I couldn't handle you, or you thought I couldn't handle Castillon, so you just stole the book and ran!"

"I told you I didn't want–"

"You spit in my face, is what you did! You destroy my trust and leave me in crippling doubt of my own judgment, and then you disappear for weeks! You come back for one day, and then you disappear again, for three fucking YEARS! Now when I wake up in the morning and you're gone, I am half-expecting to never see you again. It's driving me mad, but I can live with it because that's my own problem, and because I know that you can take care of yourself. But this — if you run again, to some seer hag or a Chasind witch; if you blatantly disregard my authority as a mage when I tell you NOT to attempt that spell, then I just don't know what I'm doing here with you anymore..."

Isabela stared at him with an open mouth, while Hawke bit down on his tongue, already regretting every other word he said. It was too much, too strong, too emotional.

The Rivaini had turned away from him and stiffly walked to the window. She hugged herself and just stared at the darkness outside.

"You're better than this," Hawke said. "Whatever's in your past, we can get over it one small step at a time. Right now I'm only asking you for the next seven or so months of your life, if I understood correctly how that amulet works. After that I will not hold you down. We may not be the perfect parents, but somehow we will make it work. So please have some faith in me this time."

"You're holding me down right now," Isabela spat. "Pompous ass. And if you won't explain that blood magic bit, then fine, stuff it."

Hawke sat down on the bed and dropped his head in his hands.

"I'm not saying you're stupid, Seabird. It's just… It's magic. There is a huge potential for power, and you would be handing it over to some unscrupulous wildling or a half-learned hag. The results could be disastrous. And I'm not doing it myself. It's just wrong."

For a moment Isabela looked ready to throw something at him, to object, to fight, to jump through the second-floor window, but then she sagged, as if feeling a trap fall shut behind her. Hawke desperately tried to think of anything else to add to reassure her, but it seemed that he had already said all that there was.

"Fine," Isabela finally said with a defeated sigh. "Be it your way. I'll do it, because you leave me no choice. But after that you better figure out how to take care of the kid, because I won't."

"Thanks." Hawke exhaled and removed the locking glyph from the door.

He didn't think Isabela wanted his company at the moment. Something had just died between them, impaled on the broken shards of the promise he had given her many years ago, the first and the last time they had ever talked about love.

Hawke knew he was right, however. He knew he could live without Isabela — the last few years had been a pretty solid, if not sad and boring proof of that — but he could not have lived with himself if he had let her make any other decision. He just couldn't. So in the end it was his ease of conscience against her freedom of choice. Against any possible future they could have had together, sailing off in the sunset — a sort of happily ever after. Maybe it would have happened in thirty years' time, judging from the progress they had made in the last seven, but still.

Hawke sighed and started to slowly walk down the stairs to the common room, to drink some more of the bitter ale, to put on his trusty mask of the nonchalant smuggler and to wait for his friends. He desperately hoped that someday Isabela would find it in her to forgive him.

Either way, Seabird was right, he had to stop and think what to do after Kirkwall.

He still had his friends and contacts, and he was still the same Garrett Hawke, the sole owner of the Bone Pit mine, the man behind the Coterie's lyrium trade with Tevinter. His schemes would need some adjustments now that he could no longer control them from Kirkwall, but it could be done. Even if he was going to be a father, he'd think of something. Gods, he was going to be a father!

He HAD to think of something.

* * *

A/N: I know this is a pretty controversial issue and I'm sorry if by interpreting abortion as blood magic I have hurt any feelings. Let's say this is just Garret's opinion that hopefully makes sense in that particular situation story-wise :/


	3. Chapter 2

Heavy, endless rains were plaguing Llomerryn this month, and Isabela hated it with a passion few could match either in bed or battle. She hated to be sitting in the harbour, deprived of sailing, drinking, dancing, fighting and the majority of other activities that she lived for. She hated her heavy gait and shortness of breath, and almost constant headache and nausea. She hated being a bloated caricature of her old self, and she hated her formless blouses and equally formless skirts, with a shawl draped over her shoulders the finishing touch in her look of a mad Rivaini seer.

She hated not being around other people, and even if she hadn't dismissed her crew, she would have hated the motley crowd that couldn't hold a candle to the dedicated, loyal team she had lost on the cliffs of Kirkwall.

She hated everything about the last seven or so months, and most of all she hated Garrett Hawke.

All this mess was his fault. He had backed her in a corner and downright refused to do anything to help her. And now she was stuck with only endless games of solitaire and swollen feet while he was Maker knows where trying to sort out his semi-legal trade schemes and find new employment for that stupid elf of his.

That self-righteous bastard hadn't even sent a letter since he got off her ship at Ostwick. For all she knew, in a couple of weeks she could be stuck with a screaming brat she had no idea what to do with.

Seething in anger, she crossed off one more day in her calendar. Tomorrow she would have to leave her captain's cabin on the_ Wavedancer _and walk up to the market again. Apart from the food, it was time to start looking for a midwife.

Lying on her side in the bed, Isabela passed a hand over her belly. She silently apologized for all the spite and anger, and misery, and whining that the unborn girl had to suffer from her unwilling mother. Isabela really wished her all the best, just — not with her.

Once more, her thoughts turned to Hawke.

She had liked him, really. There might have been even something more deeper growing between them, but now it was gone like sea foam sagging on a shore. He had pushed her when he had no right to do so. He had made the choice in her place. He had tied her down for all this time, and she didn't think she could ever forget that. 

* * *

A few days later she moved from her ship to Ma Viola's house on the outskirts of Llomerryn. The midwife was not chatty, and, what was most important to Isabela, she didn't judge. She had a neat little house with a garden, two boys of her own and a hound. The rumour was that she had never had a husband.

Isabela was given her own room with a bed, a table and two windows with white lace curtains. Everything looked old, but clean. She had put away the few things she had brought with her and lain down on the bed. Her back was aching.

It was still raining, and the grey sky didn't show any signs of stopping in the next hundred years or so. Isabela had almost fallen down the slippery stone stairs in the centre of the city as she walked up from the docks, but she hoped that the long walk was worth it, that it would be better here. Not so lonely. Besides, she wanted to keep a low profile — that Isabela, the famous raider queen, was with child would certainly undermine her reputation, or what was left of it after seven years stuck on the shore. It could also put the kid at risk. Especially if some templar decided it was Hawke's.

In the evening she crossed off one more day in her calendar. She was so damn tired lately. Blessed be the day when this nightmare is finally over. 

* * *

Ma Viola's garden had turned into a muddy disaster. The flowers were beaten to the ground by the heavy downpour, and the first early strawberries were rotting on the stems. The woman just shrugged and said it was the natural order of things, that some years there was draught and some years there was rain.

"How do you feel, my dear?" the midwife would ask every now and then.

"Fat and slow," Isabela would grunt in reply.

She didn't ask Isabela about the father of her child. That too was the natural order of things, that women like Isabela got knocked up and possibly never saw the man again. It was neither good, nor bad. It was just the way things were.

They played cards, or Isabela read books to Ma Viola while she knitted by the candle light. Her sons were wild lads, running around on their own and sometimes even not coming home for the night. Ma Viola was not too worried. She said the dog would always find them if anything happened.

It was pleasantly quiet in Ma Viola's house. Normally Isabela would say it was downright boring, but these days she was simply too tired and despondent for any more demanding activities. The rain was bringing on an almost constant headache.

* * *

With every passing day Isabela felt worse. It was as if some poison was coursing through her veins, gradually seeping all strength from her.

"Child, I'm worried about you," Ma Viola said one day as she was preparing dinner and Isabela was staring out the window with a peeling knife and carrot forgotten in her hands.

Roused from her reverie, the younger woman shrugged and turned her attention back to the carrot.

"I'm fine. Just… sad, I guess."

"You sure you're not ill, my dear?"

_No, I'm afraid I have a bad case of pregnancy_, Isabela wanted to snap but couldn't find it in her. She just wanted to lie down and not wake up until everything was fine with her world again.

She didn't want to talk about it with anyone. Other times she would have just gotten drunk or disappeared from view for a couple of days, but now she could neither drink, nor disappear. However, she knew this feeling, she had had it before. And she knew that it would pass, that she would be back on her feet again.

She just had to wait it out. 

* * *

At dawn the little one moved, but it was different this time, with a vague sense of urgency that woke Isabela up. Lying on the bed she put her hands on her belly and listened to what her body was telling her. Was this the end, the first promising ray of freedom?

As she got up and padded barefoot to the kitchen where Ma Viola was already preparing breakfast, Isabela thought she could already feel the sea breeze in her hair. Lost in the sensation, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, but all she caught was the smell of pea porridge, and nausea hit her again.

She stumbled but Ma Viola caught her.

"She's kicking to get out. I think it's time," Isabela said with a crooked smile.

With an encouraging nod, Ma Viola sat her down at the table, gave her some tea to calm down her stomach and then started to prepare her tools of trade.

As the morning went on, she brought firewood to the bath house at the back of her garden, and clean sheets and towels. Isabela knew the bath house was a relaxing place, with dried elfroot hanging from the rafters and wide, comfortable washing benches scrubbed clean with a wire brush and herbal infusions. She had been right to stay in Rivain, where the midwives still kept to their old ways. She hadn't wanted a hospital with a healer mage. She had wanted familiarity and cleanliness. For Ma Viola she might be just another woman with just another child, healthy and strong, if a little depressed, but for Isabela this was a turning point, an opportunity to turn the page and start anew, and she wanted to get over it quickly and surely.

Even the rain seemed a bit different today, now that she knew she would soon be able to sail away from it.

She would hand the girl over to Hawke. Or to a Chantry orphanage — if he fails to show up — and then she would be back on her ship, gathering a new, more permanent crew, polishing her daggers and training till she passed out to regain her form and reflexes. She would leave all this behind like a bad dream. She would definitely sail somewhere sunny and warm, and then she would get properly drunk and laid.

And she would never, ever talk to Hawke again.

Suddenly, her daydreaming and waiting while sitting on the windowsill and staring at the soggy garden was interrupted by a sharp knock on the entrance door.

_Tack, tack, tack._ The way one knocked with a walking stick or a staff. The pirate tensed as she heard Ma Viola's clogs on the floor and the door creaking open.

"Good day, serah?"

"Hello, I'm looking for Isabela. The harbour master said she might be here."

Shit. She'd recognize that voice anywhere.

After a pause where, Isabela presumed, Ma Viola had measured the guest with narrowed eyes and then wordlessly let him in, he appeared in the open doors of her room, soaking wet in his favourite black and red Overseer robes, as handsome and arrogant as ever.

"Hello, Seabird," he said.

Isabela sat still while a hundred voices screamed in her head.

So he had finally returned — the paranoid ass with some stupid code of ethics and prejudice to blood magic. Why the fuck would he come back now when he had left her stewing in this shit for three whole months?

"I was… You son of a… Where were you this whole time?!" she sputtered. "What happened to 'I'll always have your back' and 'I'll get you through this'? You said it would only take you a couple of weeks to get that snivelling elf to Bodahn! Why the hell did you even bother to come back, you sodding piece of righteousness? Where were you when I was here dying of rain and nausea?!"

"Isabela, please-"

"Don't you 'please' me! Don't you dare telling me what to do! You have no right! This is the last time I ever listen to you, H-"

"Garrett."

"Don't care, I've never called you that and I'll never call you anything again! Just turn around and sod off, run back to that puppy-eyed doll of yours, and I hope she chokes when she su-"

He slammed his staff on the floor so hard that sparkles landed across half the room.

"ISABELA!" he shouted to get through to her. "Stop rambling!"

With a few long strides he was at her side, and Isabela was forced to look up at him from her perch on the windowsill. It felt stupid but she refused to change position. Instead she crossed her arms and turned to stare out the window.

Hesitatingly, he put his hand on her shoulder, and Isabela closed her eyes. Gods, how she had missed his touch.

"You wouldn't believe what's going on in the Free Marches," he said. "Templars tightening their control on all Circles, mages bristling and threatening a full rebellion. In Kirkwall the templars have defected from the Chantry and are waging their own war on mages, apostates are turning maleficars, abominations in every town, roads full of bandits and slavers, martial law declared from every corner…"

"It's still somewhat peaceful here in Rivain, but sooner or later the word of… heh, Anders and Hawke's rebellion will get here, and the templars will follow. In these past three months I was attacked by templars and random bounty hunters eight times. Orana was hurt, she couldn't travel for a week. There was no way I could get her to Orlais to Bodahn, so we turned back. Then we had to take all sorts of roundabouts to avoid further fights. So I brought her to Llomerryn with me, she's locked herself in her room at the dockside tavern. And I am here. With you."

Isabela stubbornly avoided his gaze. From what she gathered, even Orana, that addled servant girl, had had more interesting last few months than her, and what did he mean she was here in- Whoa. Was she supposed to feel this dizzy? Ignoring Hawke, she sat up straighter and blinked. What was wrong with her? Hawke's words were buzzing in her head like a swarm of angry bees.

"I… need to lie down," she gasped and lowered her feet on the floor. Hawke frowned.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Just… shut up and help me. Get Ma Viola."

She had a cramp in her leg again, the usual nuisance of her pregnancy. When Hawke helped her lie down and went to look for the midwife, Isabela closed her eyes and tried to calm down. Surely it would pass. It was just the anger and excitement. Perhaps she shouldn't have yelled at Hawke. After all, he had returned as promised, and- Why was her other leg cramping now?

Isabela was scared. She wanted Hawke to tell her she's being stupid and that Anders will fix her in a minute, but Anders was dead, the sodding rebel. The dizziness had only grown stronger, and she felt nauseous. The world was swimming in and out of focus.

"Maaaaa!" she cried. "Maaa Violaaaa!"

Everything went black.

* * *

"Maker's breath, what's going on? Isabela, Seabird, do you hear me?"

"I don't think she does. Help me, lad, I want her in the bath house. Now!"

"Will she be alright?"

"Careful, there's mud everywhere."

"What's going on?!"

"Seizures. It happens. What has she been eating before she came here? Has she complained of nausea?"

"Constantly, but she figured it was just part of the bargain. One more thing to blame me for. Why? Is it connected?"

"Perhaps. And food?"

"Stews, fish, bread, seafood; not too fond of fruit and vegetables..."

"Right, then we'll need Hasmal salts."

"What salts?"

"Just hold her down, don't let her bite her tongue or fall off the bench, I'll be back in a minute!"

"Oh, damn it all to the Void, I should have never killed that git, I should have never left her, I should've- No-no-no, Isabela, come back! Breathe!"

"Here. Get this solution down her throat, it should release the seizures!"

"She's not breathing!"

"Yes, because the seizures constrict her ribcage!"

"Alright. Now. Open your mouth. Open. Isabela, if you don't open your teeth I'm going to blast you."

"She's not breathing. Lad, I have to do something about the ba- WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME YOU'RE A MAGE? What did you do to her?!"

"Just stunned her. Overrides all brain function and- Alright, she's breathing! Thank the Maker, she's breathing. Now, you were saying…?"

"The- the baby. She'll die if we don't get her out and the seizures continue."

"Her?"

"Yes, Isabela was sure it's a girl. Now, we have to be quick. Oh, how did I never see this coming? Why did she never mention it to me?"

"Alright. Alright, what do I do?"

"Just close your eyes, lad, this won't be pretty. Keep her passed out if you can."

"Just save her."

"Pass me that jar with the knife…"

"Maker's breath, I hope you know what you're doing…"

"I said don't look. I can't have you lose it."

"I'm sure I've seen worse."

"Then just keep her out of this and see that she's breathing. That girl should have been taking those salts for weeks, maybe even months…"

"Well, you tell her that later…"

"Remarkably strong muscles for a tavern wench… Wonder what else she forgot to mention to me… Alright, now the last cut… There."

"You cut like a butcher!"

"Shut it! Alright. Waaaait, wait, wait… Easy now… Come out, little one… Alright, now hold the baby while I cut the cord!"

"She's not breathing!"

"Calm, just clap her on the back a bit."

"You want me to hit her?!"

"Men… There, see?"

A healthy scream rose to the rafters.

"Hold your girl, lad. I'll tend to her later."

"Is she alright?"

"As fine as can be, it's the mother I'm worried about."

"She's seizing again. Shouldn't you have an assistant here?"

"Shouldn't _you_ have been taking care of her diet?"

"ISABELA!"

"She'll bleed to death, you fool, pass me that blood moss!"

"Moss! Don't you have any proper cotton wool?"

"Don't you lecture me, boy, I've been doing this job for fifteen years!"

"And what a fine job you've been doing!"

"Shut it! Towel! Iodine! That is iodine, this is calendula tincture!"

"Andraste, Mother of Mercy, I'll go to sermons on Sundays if you help her, I'll never read any tomes of dark magic again–"

"Stop rambling and press down here!"

"…I'll discard my staff and settle down. Old Gods of Tevinter, Lady of the Skies, spirits of the Wild, I don't care…"

"Press HARDER! Don't they teach you mages where the abdominal artery lies?!"

"…Spirits in the Fade, I've never asked you for anything, but please, please don't let Isabela die, please save her and don't let her die…"

"Get a grip, lad, I need fire in that furnace. Now put this knife in the flame, I need it red hot."

"Hold on, love, just hold on, don't die on me, you impossible woman…"

"Wh- What are you doing, mage? What magic is this?!"

"No idea..."

"Well, it's working!"

"I- I think it's spirit healing. A spirit must have answered my call."

"You're a blood mage?!"

"No… It's… not demon. I've never…"

"Alright, just... Yeah. Whatever it is, she'll live. She's a lucky girl, and she has you, and she'll live…" 

* * *

When she opened her eyes, she saw dark wooden rafters with bunches of herbs hanging from them. She remembered… breathlessness. She vaguely remembered that she used to be heavier than this and that it was harder to breathe. And there had been some… pain?

She felt somebody's soothing hand on her belly. Was there someone sitting beside her? Vague images were swimming in front of her eyes. What happened to her eyesight? Why was she so… dizzy…? 

* * *

She woke again to the sounds of rain rattling on the roof. It was dark. Why was she in the bath house? And what was that commotion outside?

She heard heavy footsteps and the door creaking open. Torchlight flooded the small space, hurting her eyes, but then someone shouted something about dried herbs, and after a moment the torch went away.

Isabela tried to raise her head but couldn't. She was weak as a kitten.

Sighing she closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep. 

* * *

She had no idea which day it was, but whatever she had been drugged with was wearing off now, and her whole body was in pain. Her lips were bitten, and there were bruises on her wrists where someone must have held them. Had she been assaulted? Then what was that fresh scar on her belly? Had she been stabbed?

The door creaked open letting in a shaft of sunlight, and the woman who had been caring for her came in with a jug of milk and some bread.

"Hello. Do you know where you are?" she asked.

Isabela thought. She thought she knew. She had been here before, if only to… wash?

"Bath house?" she guessed, gazing at the woman. The sunlight was hurting her eyes.

The woman nodded. "Do you know why?"

"Well, I didn't just scrub myself to a new scar and amnesia, did I?"

The woman sighed and sat on a stool besides her makeshift cot, a wooden washing bench covered with a stained and wrinkled sheet.

"A week ago you got severe seizures and nearly died in the process," she said. "You passed out and at some point you stopped breathing. Your baby had to be delivered immediately. Fortunately, your man had just come to see you, and he managed to pull you through. He healed you. I'm sorry, child, I had no idea things were so bad. You should have told me you spent the last six months on a ship, then I would have done something to get you on proper diet on time. You're a very lucky and strong girl, my dear..."

Isabela blinked. She had given birth? The woman… Ma Viola?... sounded completely crazy, but now some bits and pieces of memories were starting to come back. She remembered rain, the smell of a wet woollen robe and a big warm hand on her shoulder. Hawke had returned? And then?

"Where is he? And where is my child?" she asked, voice rusty from her days-long sleep.

Ma Viola hung her head.

"He was sitting here with you when a few hours later some Chantry folks came by. They asked after any apostates, threatening to search the house, but your man managed to slip out with the child. I feared he wouldn't get far, since he seemed a bit shaky himself, but he said that he'd be alright. He also said that such was his deal with you and that he would take care of your daughter."

So she had been right, a girl.

Ma Viola smiled sadly.

"You'll get better, my dear. Now try to eat something and then go back to sleep. I'm sure you'll see them soon, don't worry." 

* * *

That night, Isabela lay on her cot staring up at the rafters. Ma Viola didn't have the strength to get her back to the house, and Isabela was too weak to even sit up. She hated being this helpless, but, to be honest, she was even too weak for hate. She was too weak to _be_, so she was a weightless nothing, floating in space and time. The only thing she could do was just lay there, hands placed on the pulsing scar on her belly, a permanent reminder of Hawke's healing touch.

He was gone. There was a war declared on the likes of him, and she might never see him again. He had returned, fulfilled his end of the bargain, taken the child she had never wanted and then disappeared again. She was… free?

She had never even seen her little girl. True, she hadn't wanted her, but she had carried her for nine months nonetheless, and then not to even see her left a hollow feeling somewhere in her chest.

She had only once felt this empty. Not when her mother sold her into marriage, not when her husband lay dying at an assassin's feet, not even when she lost everything to the treacherous cliffs of Kirkwall. Only when she found out that the only man she had ever loved had committed suicide because she broke his heart.

A lone tear ran down her temple. What was she to do now? What was wrong with her? Why was everything suddenly so complicated? What had this… this project done to her? 

* * *

Without a healer, getting better took forever. Ma Viola said that because of the mage revolt potions had become scarce, and there was only so much she could do with her salves and herbal infusions.

It had taken Isabela a week to finally be able to sit up and another one to slowly walk to Ma Viola's house. She had wanted to scream in frustration but had broken down crying on her bed. Ma Viola said it was completely normal, that it would take time for her body and mind to adjust, but she apparently didn't know Isabela well enough. There was nothing even remotely normal about Isabela crying.

Somewhere around that time, Isabela got a letter from Hawke. She read and re-read it till it fell apart in her shaky hands, and then she cried some more.

He said that her little girl was alright, and that he had named her Elspeth. Together with Orana, they had left for Denerim, and from there they would sail to Gwaren. He said she had every right to kill him for making her suffer through all this and that he wished with all his heart that things had been different. He was sorry he was forced to leave her. He didn't think she could ever forgive him, but he hoped she could find happiness and be safe. He said he loved her.

After all these years he actually said he loved her. 

* * *

Piece by piece, Isabela was putting herself back together. She forbade herself to think about Hawke and instead focussed only on herself. She did a full inventory of her head and was glad to find that the basics were still the same: she desperately wanted to be out on the sea.

By the end of the third week she had pulled herself together enough to send message to her first mate to gather a crew. She didn't want to spend another day in Ma Viola's house, or in Llomerryn, for that matter. She was nowhere near well, but she knew she had to get out of there. It was time to turn that blasted page.

By the end of the month, in spite of countless objections and warnings from Ma Viola, she was finally back on her beautiful _Wavedancer_, and the first thing she did while the first mate was still stocking up the hold, was go up to the market and by some proper new clothes, a corset and a new headscarf to replace the one she had misplaced somewhere in Ma Viola's house.

The walk to the market took longer than planned, and she had to stop several times to catch her breath. She was still weak, and on top of that she had unexpectedly gotten in a small fight. But then she was back on her ship, and that counted more than some dizzy spells or local idiots.

Walking up the plank, Isabela breathed in the salty air and tried to calm down. She couldn't afford showing the crew how fucked up she was. She was the captain, and the newly recruited men had to respect her. That was another basic that would never change.

She trailed her hand along the varnished railings and the masts, inspected every little hinge and knot to check that her ship was ready for the Amaranthine storms. There were chickens and dried bread, and beans, and barrels of fresh water, and rum in the hold, with plenty of space left for cargo or loot. The first mate had done a good job.

Caressing the carved wooden spokes of the steering wheel she thought that despite everything, she would be fine in the end. So what if she was a bit weak and jumpy? Those lecherous fools in the market had no business slapping her ass, and so what if her knee-jerk reaction had been to punch them in the face? And if Ma Viola really thought she was going to keep her promises and avoid drinking and fighting for another two months, well, the good woman just didn't know her. As long as she was free, she'd be fine. Somehow.

First things first, she had to test her new crew, get some starting capital and see where it leads her. Write a couple of letters to Kirkwall and Denerim. Check in on Varric and Merrill in Ostwick, but only after she has regained her form. No need to tell them about... well, about her daughter. Ah, she should remind the first mate to get some fruit at their next harbour. Grapes should be nice.

And then maybe, just maybe — after she has sorted out what's going on with the world and what's going on in her heart — she will find Hawke and Ellie. Just a short visit, to see that they're doing fine and thank Hawke for his sudden talent in healing. And then... maybe she _could_ find that Dagger of the Four Winds or steal the Queen of Antiva.

A slow grin appeared on the pirate's face.

"Hey, boys, kiss the land goodnight," she called. "The tide's here, and we sail!"

"Freckles! Get down to the hold and bring up my flag! Sal, Larry, Damian, weigh the anchor and cast off! There's some shiny goodness passing under our noses, and those ships are not going to pillage themselves!"

Well, fucked up or no, she had places to break into, things to steal and people to fool. She had a couple of new secrets to keep and some old Armada disagreements to settle. Andraste's flaming knickers, she was _Isabela_! She knew her basics, and the rest would follow sooner or later. Luckily, she was not a terribly deep person.


	4. Chapter 3

**I'm sorry for the small delay in updating, but I was thinking whether there should actually be a chapter between Chapter 2 and this Chapter 3, and thinking and re-thinking, and generally overthinking this whole thing...**  
**So — just read and review, I'd really like to hear your thoughts, dear readers :)**

* * *

Garry had this theory that life and stories were two opposite sides of a coin, two different states of existence. One could live a life, or live a story. However, life was the primary state, the nourishing substrate — the beginning and the end of all stories. He'd say that if one understood how stories worked, one could flip the coin and move between these states — step in or out of the story — at his own free will.

But that was just fancy talking, thought Cadrine as she pulled out some weeds, threw them in the bucket, then wiped the sweat from her brow and crawled deeper into the lettuce bed. Garry was _wrong_. Life was just _life_, and everyone did what they could to make the best of it. Stories were just entertainment. And anyway, there were no stories waiting to happen to a miller's daughter stuck weeding her employer's garden.

If Garry continued to be so ignorant or stubborn to her, weeding, cooking, sewing and cleaning was what she would be stuck doing her whole _life_ until she dropped dead from the mind-numbing boredom. Not that she was sharing such thoughts with anyone, but somehow she was convinced that life with Garry would be different. She wouldn't be picky about her role either. Now, if he would just _talk_ to her…

Cadry wasn't stupid. She knew there was so much more to him than to other villagers. He might be polite, charming and handsome, but she didn't just _watch_. She _saw_. Take, for example, his story telling.

Everybody knew that Garry thrived on tall tales and gossip. He would ooh and boo in all the right places, then add some saucy details and retell them in an even more outrageous manner. Sometimes the people of Vantage wondered at his wild imagination, but nobody knew what the guy had been doing before he showed up, and nobody really cared. But somewhere, somehow he had developed a pretty good sense of what made a story and what didn't.

Cadry would bet her last shirt that the mine manager had seen his own share of adventures.

What she couldn't figure out was why, in the name of the Maker, he was so annoyingly aloof all the time! She couldn't shake the feeling that the manager lived in a different world, and there Cadry was not a person, but only a housekeeping resource, barely a step above lettuce and furniture.

If there had been some tragedy in his past, any sane person would have found at least _someone_ to talk to, but no, not Garry. Was he really that arrogant? If yes, then why even bother pretending to be nice? And he treated _everyone_ like that, even his own daughter. How come nobody _saw_ that?

Take, for example, that conversation right now. Cadry looked up from the lettuce bed and wiped away the sweat from her brow again. In the shed, Garry was working on new window shutters, and his dishevelled and muddy three-year-old was sitting on the worktable and playing with the new beige kitten in her lap.

"…So Bonbon was the fair princess from Orlais, and I was her secret ad-advisor. And Bevan was the templar knight. We lived in a beau-u-u-utiful castle on top of a mountain, but then mages from Kirkwall came — that was Bo's brother and Little Pete, and they attacked us!"

"Tragic," Garry grumbled and took more nails from the jar.

"We def-defended our castle! But the mages cast a spell after spell, and the castle started to burn! We had to jump from the walls and into the river. We barely escaped with our lives!"

"Hm."

"Papa! I nearly died!"

"You nearly broke the peonies below Bonbon's window."

"But-"

"Look, Ellie, what colour window shutters do you want — red or brown?"

Cadry tuned out the conversation and moved on to the radish bed. See? The way he talks to her, one could think she's an annoying pest, not his own flesh and blood. Oh, how she longed to break through that glass wall he had built around himself…

"Ah, Cadry! There you are!"

She looked up through her mousy brown fringe. "I'm always here," she muttered.

"Well, I meant the radishes as opposed to the pumpkin patch," Garry chuckled and sat on his haunches. His dark blue eyes, the exact colour of his ascot tie, were level with hers, and for a rare moment they were looking straight at her. Gods, she could drown in them. She didn't hear his question.

"I said I'm taking a few days off," Garry repeated with a sigh, his expression getting that damned distant look again. "Your brother is more than qualified to look after the mine for a few days. Maybe a week. There's something I want to see up in the mountains."

"But, Garry, what's there to see? There's just wilderness and wolves!"

"And one secluded village nobody knows anything about."

"What, Haven?"

"Yeah, exactly."

Cadry blinked in surprise. Was he suddenly out of his mind? She knew her boss liked long walks on the moor, but what could possibly make him want to go to Haven? What was going on in that stubborn head of his?

Garry stood up and went to get some tool from the house, glancing back to see if Cadry was still speechless. Of course she wasn't. She'd give him a piece of her mind alright.

"Hey!" she called and rushed after him. "What in the Maker's name do you think you're doing? I understand going down to the Highway, I understand even going all the way to Redcliffe, but why go up there? You'll just get yourself killed! There's no _sense_ in going to Haven!"

Garry turned around on the threshold and sighed.

"Look. Nothing's going to happen to me," he said. "I'll even take that militia excuse for a sword with me. Ellie will stay with you, and I will always come back to her. Always."

"I'm not worried about the girl, I'm worried about you!"

"Oh, I'll be alright."

"Garry, you don't understand. There are wolves and bears in the mountains, and people say there are mad zealots up there in Haven. And a dragon!"

To her surprise, Garry let out a slightly manic laugh.

"What's so funny? I'm serious!"

But Garry laughed till there were tears in his eyes and till he was completely out of breath. He rested against the door frame and gasped for air.

"That's… That's sweet, Cadry… Heh… That you're so worried about me…"

"I _am_ worried about you, you fool! You're living as if you're half asleep the whole time, and now you want to go to Haven! Do you have a death wish or what?"

"Oh, Cadry, that's rich…"

"What?!"

Suddenly he grew serious, and Cadry found she was again paralyzed by that sharp look in his eyes. Oh, pull yourself together, she thought. How in the Void was she ever going to get through to him, if she'd always freeze up whenever he looked at her for real?

"Garry," she began anxiously, twisting her hands in her simple grey apron and leaning against the other door jamb. "I know it's probably inappropriate, but… well, you're not stupid, you must know that I care for you… No, don't float away, please!"

The mine manager raised one eyebrow, but it appeared that he was still here.

"Float away?" he asked.

Cadry gulped and crossed her arms. She suddenly had no idea what to do with them. "Oh, I… I meant that distant look you get. Why do you always keep yourself so aloof? Don't you _like_ anyone?"

Garry glanced out at the garden where Ellie was trying to talk the kitten out of the hedge, then turned back to her with a measuring look.

"I do like some people. The problem is that the majority of you are awfully boring."

Cadry gaped.

"I don't want to insult anyone," Garry continued. "You're all loving, nice people here in Vantage, with loving, nice lives and dreams. I'm grateful that Mistress Amell trusted me with this job, I really needed it. But you can't honestly deny that this life is as captivating as watching paint dry. You learn who is who in a week and then nothing changes. Ever."

"You can't mean that!" Cadry sputtered. "Of course, it's no great adventure, but there are children being born, and people getting married, and, look, you came by and the old silverite mine was reopened. There are merchants passing through with all sorts of news, there are fairs and festivals… "

Garry sighed. "Yeah, the backbone of life. The grain for the porridge and the vegetables for the stew. It's nourishing and healthy, and calming, the stuff of your dreams when you're hungry. But once you get it, after a while you start wishing for salt too…"

"But there is salt right here!" Cadry stamped her foot in annoyance. "There is no other reality, there is just this life! So figure out what's missing in yours, and then go get it, it's not that complicated!"

The manager opened his mouth, then closed it again and only gave her a sad smile. With that he vanished inside, to his bedroom, which was off-limits to Cadry, to do Maker knows what.

As Cadry returned to weeding, she replayed that conversation in her head again and again, and only on the third rerun she suddenly realized that he had actually never said anything to her admission of… non-indifference? Whatever she had meant by it. And he was still going to Haven, to either get his damn metaphorical salt or to get killed. What a stupid, stupid man!

* * *

Leaving her parents' millhouse, Cadry stopped on the dam and looked up at the stars reflecting in the pond. It was later than she had expected, but her time here would always fly by when she came for a visit. Even more so if she brought Ellie along, because she just _had_ to stick her hands in the dogs' bowl or snack on raw dough in the kitchen, or get all wet from the water wheel in the basement.

The new extension was coming along nicely, though. Her brother thought that in a couple of months she could in fact move back in with them, if she wanted. Cadry hadn't decided yet. She quite liked having a job and being the sole mistress of the small white house at the end of the main street.

But the mine manager's daughter was pulling her sleeve again.

"Cadry? Cadry-y!"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Do you think Papa really went to get yellow paint for the shutters?"

Cadry looked down at the little girl as she took her hand and started walking home.

"Well, he said so, didn't he?"

"Yes, but who goes to get paint in the _mountains_?"

"I think you'll just have to trust your Papa. And not throw a tantrum if he doesn't find it, alright?"

"Alright…"

"And stop picking your nose."

"But Bevan does it all the time! He did it even at the table!"

"Bevan's a boy, and I don't care if my sister-in-law doesn't care. If you pick your nose, it will grow as big as a potato. And then you can't be a princess."

"I don't _want_ to be a princess! Princesses are stupid!"

Cadry sighed.

"You fought with Bonbon again?"

"No I didn't. She fought with me."

"Ellie, it takes two persons to get in a fight. What was it this time?"

"She told her Ma that it was me who ac-accidently tore her dress, but for real it was Master Larson's dog, she just didn't want to tell her Ma that she was in his field again, and now her Ma won't let us play anymore."

Cadry rolled her eyes and smiled. "I'll talk to Bo's mother tomorrow."

"But Bo'll hate me if you tell her!"

"I won't. I'll think of something, so that all parties involved are equally happy…"

"Cadry? Who is that standing at our gate?"

"Where? How can you see _anything_ in this darkness?"

"I know, it's a pirate! A pirate with double daggers and movements so quick you never see it coming, and then you're dead!"

"Maker, who's telling you such rubbish... There are no pirates on land, sweetie."

As they came nearer, Cadry saw that there really was someone leaning on their gate.

"Hello," Cadry said. "Can I help you, serah?"

"Of course, sweet thing," a husky woman's voice assured her. "Is this the mine manager's house?"

* * *

"So you're here to see Garry?" Cadry clarified as she set out a tray of tea for her unexpected guest. The dark-skinned woman tore her gaze away from Ellie and draped herself over the table.

"Mmm, so it's Garry. A tall bloke, red hair, blue eyes? With a pretty little daughter, almost three years old?" she glanced at Ellie again.

Cadry was feeling less comfortable by the minute. It was, of course, basic politeness that had led her to invite this late wanderer inside, but now she thought it might have been a mistake. With a clank, she put down the sugar bowl and narrowed her eyes at the woman.

"Yeah, that's our Garry alright. My name is Cadrine, and this here is Ellie. And who in the Void are you?"

The woman chuckled and lounged back in her chair.

"My, my. But he always had an eye for the spirited ones. My name is Isabela, and I'm an old friend of… Garry's. Also, I must say I'm the little girl's mother."

The tea tray rattled in Cadry's hands and she hastily put it down on the table. She blinked at the woman through her fringe.

"_What_?!"

"You're so pretty when you're shocked! I bet Garry does it all the time, just to see that nice pink blossom on your cheeks. I wonder, does it go lower, or is it just cheeks?"

Cadry sputtered. Of all the impossible, unbelievable, unimaginable things to tell her, this… this woman just waltzes here in her life, claims that Ellie's her daughter and… and… _flirts_ with her?! Maker, this day had just left the bounds of reality…

She looked at the woman sideways, not sure if she wouldn't go poof and disappear. But no, she seemed pretty solid, lounging in the chair with gloved hands crossed on her belly, a predatory smile on her lips and a killer figure clad in dark pants, white shirt and a blood-red corset.

"So you're Ellie's mother?" she repeated, just to be completely sure. "And you know Garry from before he came to Vantage?"

"I am and I do, sweet thing." The woman cocked her head and measured Cadry with a mischievous look, but Cadry thought there was some tightness around her eyes. "Should I feel offended or should I congratulate you that your darling husband has never felt the need to even mention me?"

Cadry looked at her in confusion, but the woman had turned to Ellie.

"Judging from the look on the little girl's face, he's never mentioned me to her either," she said. "Now that's a bit sad."

"Papa said you were a pirate," Ellie peeped from across the table.

"That is correct," Isabela chuckled.

Ellie's eyes went round as saucers.

"I knew it! I _knew_ she was a pirate, Cadry!" she shouted, jumping up and down in her seat. "Papa told me all about pirates! Do you have a ship? Are you really my mum? Will you live here with us? Cadry, can she live here with us?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" The woman threw up her hands, then pointed her index finger at the girl. "Pirates don't live on land, has nobody told you that? Now how about you go to sleep and we talk with Cadry here about that staying arrangement, hm?"

"But I don't want to sleep!… Cadry? Why are you upset?"

Cadry blinked and forced herself to return to here and now. This was some sort of a nightmare.

"I'm alright sweetie. I just got a headache. Now let's put you to bed and in the morning our dear guest will answer all your questions, if you promise to ask them one by one…"

"But I'm not sleepy, I want to stay here with my mum!"

Ouch, that hurt. During the past year and a half that Cadry had been working here, taking care of Ellie each and every day, feeding her, bathing her, consoling her when she fell down and scraped her knees, never, not once had the girl shown such desperate wish to stay with _her_. And the woman could even be lying.

"Ellie, please. Let's find your kitten and get you in bed. It's been a long day…"

"But my mum _will_ be here in the morning?"

Maker forbid that woman's been lying.

"Yes, she will," Cadry promised.

* * *

"Look, let's put this straight," Cadry said as she closed the door to Ellie's room and returned to the kitchen. "I don't know where you got the idea but I'm not Garry's wife or anything. I'm just his housekeeper and, well, sort of a nanny."

Isabela frowned and measured her with a look once more.

"Why not?" she asked. "You seem qualified."

Cadry blushed and hastily sat down at the table. Why was it that everything this woman said made her feel so self-conscious? Cadry knew she looked alright, if a bit short, but with curves in all the right places, bright green eyes and wavy brown hair, and she knew she shouldn't feel so confused, so what was it about this woman that set her on edge so?

"Well, you tell me," she decided to return the question. "You know him longer than I. Were you married? Did he love you?"

Isabela leaned forward and rested her chin in her hand.

"You have such nice hair, all soft and shiny," she purred.

"Hey, I really want to know. You can't just announce something like that and honestly hope I won't have any questions."

Isabela rolled her eyes.

"No, we weren't married. Yes, he loved me."

"And you?"

"Really nice hair. Can I touch it?"

"Will you stop it, you're creeping me out! And this is my house, more or less, so please stop… whatever it is you're doing."

"I see. Alright, Isabela's backing off."

"Thanks."

"So where is Garry anyway?"

* * *

They drank tea well into the night as Cadry told her about her life in Vantage and how she had met Garry. How his previous housekeeper, a timid elven girl, had married some travelling basket weaver and moved with him to Redcliffe. How her brother, Garry's right hand man, had asked her to take up that position, because his wife was expecting and it was going to become too crowded in the mill until he finished the new extension. She told her of her work and duties, how she had taught Ellie to walk and how she was fighting a losing battle with the girl's inexplicable attraction to all things muddy and slimy.

Somehow, the atmosphere had shifted, and Cadry was surprised to find herself with an eager and friendly listener. Of course, Isabela still stubbornly refused to answer the majority of her questions, but Cadry could see some similarities between her guest and Garry, in the way she let her gaze roam the kitchen, the way she slouched in the chair... More pronounced, of course were the similarities between Isabela and Ellie, the way they smiled or carried themselves, the dark hair and the almond eyes.

Sometime during the night, the pirate woman had put on the table a bottle of wine, and soon Cadry and she had become the bestest friends. In the dark hour before dawn Cadry had mentioned that she had no idea about Garry's past or what he was up to in his spare time. She was not allowed in his room, not even for cleaning. She told Isabela that if the door was ajar or the windows were open, she would catch glimpses of a table covered in maps, journals and parchments. There were locked chests and a bookshelf covered with a cloth. Slightly drunk, Cadry admitted she had a feeling that Garry didn't really care if she knew what was there in general, as long as she didn't go snooping out the specifics, but now, since Isabela was here, maybe she could finally shed some light on that too — was he writing a book? Had he been a scholar before coming to Vantage?

Isabela had sniggered, and her golden cat eyes had lit up like the flames that had burned the Maker's Bride.

"Oh, he hasn't told you? Well, why don't we find out, sweet heart," she purred. "Come on, it'll be fun!"

Alright, thought Cadry and laughed at her own obedience. It's probably nothing anyway, and Garry wouldn't even have to know. She's been silly, really. With an embarrassed snort, she stood up and followed the pirate out of the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 4

**Et voila, a longish last chapter. A small warning — where Isabela starts telling her adventures (marked off with a (*)), there are some generic spoilers for "Those Who Speak". Basically a summary of what I found on the DA wiki, but perhaps somebody would ****still **like to skip a few paragraphs. It has no further specific impact on the story.

**Anyway, hope you enjoy it! :)**

* * *

At the first rays of the sun the kitchen dore almost flew off the hinges as Cadry banged it open.

"Two years! He's been living here for almost two whole years — how in the _Void_ did he manage to hide that he's an apostate?! He's even going to Chantry services! Each and every fucking Sunday he is sitting there and even chatting with Mother Liana," Cadry exclaimed as she collapsed in the kitchen chair and banged her head on the table. "And Champion of Kirkwall? Starter of this whole mage rebellion? _Seriously_?"

"See? I told you it's fun to ignore stupid rules! Now imagine Hawke's face when he comes in as if nothing's happened… Manager, my ass… More like the owner, I'd say, even if it is his cousin's name on the papers… Devious! Isn't he amazing?"

Isabela was bustling around the kitchen, chirpy as a bird. It was painful to look at, really. How did she do it? She had travelled a whole day, and then drunk the whole night, and still she looked as fresh as a daisy. Cadry just wanted to sleep. Her head was pounding from the wine and the mind-boggling truth.

"I warned him about wolves and bears," she mumbled with her head still on the table.

Isabela turned to her with an amused grin. "You what?"

"Before he left, I warned him about wolves and bears. And he started laughing like mad. Of course, after killing a whole army of templars…"

"Oh, don't feel bad, sweet heart," Isabela patted her on the shoulder and put in front of her a mangled construct that might pass for a sandwich. "You meant well. Now where do you keep elfroot? I hear that's useful for hangover?"

Without raising her head, Cadry pointed her to the garden.

.

* * *

.

Garrett slowly gathered his things and tied up his sleeping roll, although the dawn was barely there yet.

Something that the Arishok had said to him all those years ago had suddenly come back, and Hawke couldn't sleep. Since Vantage was not that far away now, he figured he might as well start moving.

In the end lies glory, the Arishok had said.

Hawke wondered if getting killed by a _bas saarebas_ smuggler counted as glory. He had never understood the Qun. However, seeing as he was a mage, it was probably small wonder that the philosophy refused to take root in his mind.

It also failed to apply to that village of Haven, since it had been inexplicably and most un-gloriously empty. From what he gathered, Hawke concluded that it had been a secluded place with old-fashioned ideas (just look at the primitive window shutter carvings), and probably full of zealots. The Book of Chant in the ruins of the Chantry had definitely been full of heretic nonsense. He knew, he'd been attending the chant in Vantage like any good Andrastian.

The temple had been interesting. There had been rich inscriptions in its stone columns and walls, remnants of amazing vaults and arches, half hidden by snow drifts. He had wondered where everyone had disappeared to, but then he had found a templar gauntlet, and that sort of explained the abandonment. Apparently the heretics had deserved themselves an exalted mini-march.

So their lives too had ended in blood and pain. Maybe they thought it was glory to get killed in battle, Hawke didn't know.

As he walked down the crooked path towards Vantage, he thought that the only person he knew who got anything out of his own death was Saint Anders. And even then it was only because of his and Varric's stories. If mages knew that their visionary was murdered by his own friend and fellow mage, not killed in unjust battle against a hundred templars, that would probably quench the fires of revolution a bit.

So what did lie in the end? And how do you actually define 'end'?

It could be the end of a day, or the end of a journey. In such case, for him, in the end lay Vantage with his little wildling of a girl.

He remembered telling Cadry his half-formed ideas. Maybe that really was the truth? That life was the beginning and end of everything, but not as opposed to stories, but opposed to glory. Hawke pondered that for a moment.

Actually, the initial idea didn't make sense. Because, if he said that life was the beginning and the end, then that would make story, or glory, the middle part, which he couldn't really see in practice. The Hero of Ferelden had had a life, then she had made it into a story, but now she was dead. Andraste was dead. Anders, too, was dead.

So, in practice, you don't return from that story/glory part. Except that he had. He had become a legend, and then he had stepped out of that story and got himself a life.

On the other hand, there was glory _in_ life, because having a good life _is_ glorious, even if you don't really hear stories about rich harvests or healthy kids. Those are not the type of stories that are told in taverns and that survive ages. But what if the definition of good life is not universal? Could it mean different things to different people?

Well, there was Anders, who wanted freedom for all mages, there was Knight-Commander Meredith, who wanted iron control over all mages, and then there was this one pirate who only wanted to have fun and sail the seven seas. It's hard to say if any of these approaches would have led to stories if there hadn't been a massive loss of lives related to the first two characters.

But maybe it didn't matter, because a story was just a means of… of…

Hawke groaned. He kicked a rock down the path and swore. This was why he hated idle life! He'd get stuck in his own head and wear a path in his skull musing on some stupid idea that didn't change anything, just made him gradually lose his mind.

How he hated the placid village.

He had been trying to amuse himself with anything he could, from playing 'Spot the difference' in his head while listening to the chant every Sunday, to taking up solitaire and even trying fishing. He was collecting folk tales and researching local superstitions. Repairing the house. Dealing with stupid quarrels among his men and between Ellie and her friends. Joining the local militia, even if that decision was forced on every able man by the Arl of Redcliffe. But he was slowly losing it, there was no denying that.

Gods, why was Ellie still so small and Cadry so… so… nice-but-never-enough, and all his friends sown in the winds? Where was a healthy group of thugs or blood mages when you needed to smash something into the ground? Why were there no news of his investments with Solivitus and Charade? Why hadn't Varric met him for their annual rendez-vous in Redcliffe? Hawke had a strong suspicion that something was very, very wrong with the world, but very few news reached Vantage.

Tired and disappointed, Hawke kicked open his garden gate and then forced himself to take a deep breath. This was home, and he should calm down, put on the mask of Red Garry and rein in his temper. Such were the rules of this game. Everybody was probably still sleeping.

Brushing a hand through the hedge drying in the morning sun, he closed his eyes and inhaled.

He focussed on the marigolds and mints, the crushed and wilted weeds strewn on the pathways. The whole garden was dripping with the general green smell of morning dew. A dash of wet sawdust wafted from the shed. Hawke opened his eyes and silently cursed remembering that he was supposed to get yellow paint for Ellie's new window shutters.

He silently opened the door, propped his "walking stick" in the corner of the wind porch and removed his sword belt and boots. It was quiet in the house. Thinking about his two girls, Hawke smiled, but then he rounded the kitchen corner and froze in confusion.

.

* * *

.

Cadry must have dozed off on the table, because there were such nice cool tendrils snaking through her head, calming her frayed thoughts and dissipating the headache. Someone was combing fingers through her ash brown hair, massaging the nape of her neck and caressing her tired forehead. This was bliss in its purest form. Cadry purred and lolled her head so that the heavenly hand could reach the other side of her hair. But the hand withdrew.

Cadry opened one accusatory, sleepy green eye and glanced up. Where did the hand go? What she saw made her gasp and sit bolt upright in a heartbeat.

"Are you alright? Why've you been drinking and where did you get this?" asked Garry, frowning in front of her and holding the empty bottle of wine she had drunk with Isabela last night. Oh, damn. She opened her mouth to say something. She didn't know what, but she was definitely going to say something that would be better than just sitting here looking all drunk and irresponsible, but just at that moment Isabela had decided to skip back inside.

"Here, darling, I'll fix you- Oh. Hello, Hawke!"

Garry whirled around and dropped the bottle, which crashed into a hundred pieces on the terracotta floor.

.

* * *

.

For a long while they just stared at each other. He had missed her so much, but now that the Rivaini stood in his kitchen, a bowl of elfroot leaves in her gloved hand, he felt as shocked as when she had sauntered back into the Viscount's throne room, Tome of Koslun under her arm.

What do you say to somebody who you have guilt-tripped into having a child and who almost died as a result?

"Why are you here," he choked out.

"For the breath-taking sights of snowy mountains and frozen mud, of course," Isabela quipped, then narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at Hawke's neck. "Isn't that my old headscarf? I looked for it everywhere in Ma Viola's house!"

That broke Hawke out of his shock, and he started laughing. What an impossible woman! A thief and a pirate, and the first thing she says after almost three years of absence is accuse him of stealing.

"Oh, Isabela," he smiled and advanced on her with open arms, but suddenly she dropped the bowl, backed into the wall and threw up her arms, as if he was going to hit her. All surprise and challenge was wiped from her face, to be replaced by wary seriousness. "Gods, Seabird, I…"

Avoiding his eyes, Isabela just shook her head.

"It's a long story, Hawke," she said. "Just… No touching for the moment."

Garrett frowned, then glanced behind him at Cadry, who was watching the scene with a mesmerized but bleary-eyed expression.

"She says women are six times more fun than men," the housekeeper drawled. "I wouldn't know."

Garrett blinked and glanced back at Isabela. This didn't make any sense. Cadry drunk and talking about sex, while Isabela actually avoids any physical contact? Hawke pinched himself, then sighed and plopped down in a chair at the smallish square table. Isabela picked up the bowl of elfroot and sat down in front of him.

"Seabird," he said. "Why don't you start from the beginning?"

And so she started. Not from the very beginning, but somewhere from around a year ago when she had crossed paths with Zevran ("That ridiculous assassin whore?"), who was in need of some powerful friends ("Again?"), while she was in need of a more trustworthy first mate ("Him, trustworthy? Really, Isabela!"). So together they had worked towards a better crew, more daring plans and higher positions in the Felicisima Armada ("So you're really a pirate?"), and they had been quite successful actually.

**(*)** Then about half a year ago she had run into Varric and Alistair ("Really, our King Alistair?" — "So that's why Varric skipped our meeting!"), and gone with them to find the guy's father ("But, Isabela, everyone knows that King Maric is dead!"). Long story short, they had broken into Velabanchel ("King Alistair broke into- What's that place anyway?"), met a high dragon and the Witch of the Tellari Swamps, then visited a whole sanctuary of dragons, Alistair got kidnapped, Isabela killed an Antivan prince ("And what a louse he was!"), they got back Alistair, and Alistair killed the Witch, then they went to a Tevinter party, killed some dragon cultists and were off on their way to Seheron when they were attacked by two Qunari dreadnoughts ("Seabird, don't you_ learn_?").

Then they had spent three weeks as prisoners in some war camp, met the new Arishok ("You're having me on…"), Alistair defeated him, they became allies and sailed to Seheron together with the Qunari ("I don't understand, why is this such an issue? I hear the Qunari are different, but… Isabela?") to find the magister behind this whole scheme, ("I think I lost the plot somewhere." — "Finding King Maric!" — "Oh. Right."), then they assaulted the magister's fortress, found Maric, got trapped in the Fade, got out, got Maric out, but then he was too weak, so they had to kill him. **(*) **Then they got Alistair home to Denerim, and there she had run into Orana and her basket weaver of a husband, and finally found out where to look for Hawke.

"You certainly know how to lay low," Isabela said, her voice slightly hoarse from all the talking. With an amused smirk she downed the mug of tea Garrett had prepared for her some time during her story.

"Well, you certainly don't know how to stay clear of the Qunari… What were you thinking?"

"It was fun! And everything ended well! And that Witch of the Swamps had really nice jewellery locked away in the temple."

Hawke rolled his eyes but he couldn't deny that he envied her adventures. And, once again, Isabela had proven that she was perfectly able to take care of herself. This had always been a breath of fresh air in Hawke's life. A glance at Cadry revealed that the girl was completely smitten by her new friend's exploits. And why not? They really were impressive, even if the plot was still sketchy in places.

Getting up to prepare another round of teas and probably some sandwiches, Hawke suddenly noticed a pair of brown eyes watching him from behind the kitchen door. Hawke smirked.

"Ellie, I see you," he called. "You want a sandwich too?"

His daughter stumbled out from her hiding place and looked at Isabela in awe.

"You really, really did all that? No lies?" She ran to the table and climbed up on the fourth chair opposite Cadry, who was watching Isabela with a similar admiration.

"If I said I always lie, would you believe me then?" Isabela winked at Ellie. "No, sweat heart, it was all as real as this- Is that a sandwich, Hawke?"

"I could ask you the same about that," Hawke shrugged and pointed at the unstable heap of bread and vegetables at Cadry's elbow.

Isabela narrowed her eyes at him, but started to eat it nevertheless.

"Anyway," she said with her mouth full when Hawke returned to the table with two more sandwiches for Ellie and himself. "The thing is, neither of us understood much of what we saw there in that temple or in that magister's fortress. High dragons, sacred blood, weird contraptions… Not really my or Varric's line of work. I think there's plenty of what Alistair didn't tell us too. And then, passing by Hercinia on our way to Denerim we saw a green gap in the sky, with a purple tentacle hanging out. I'd say — a Fade-green gap, but I'll leave that to devout Andrastians waiting for the judgment day."

"So what you're saying?" Hawke asked.

"What I'm saying is that even with this whole lovely mage revolution, civil war in Orlais, global shortage of potions and long-forgotten Chantry military branches showing up left and right, there's something even bigger going on. I mean — dragons? Tears in the sky?"

Hawke frowned. Somehow what Isabela was saying reverberated with his own unease. Something was definitely wrong with the fabric of the world.

"Well, you're more than welcome to stay here," he said, encompassing in one gesture the kitchen, the village and the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. "It's safe enough here, no gaps in the sky observed yet."

Isabela crossed her hands under her chin and pinned Hawke under her gaze. Something had changed there, Hawke thought, there was something new in her eyes that hadn't been there three years ago. He had a suspicion that there were a million things that Isabela had left untold, but he didn't get the usual flippancy from her. No, if he asked her when they were alone, if he asked the right questions, she would probably tell him everything…

"No," Isabela said with a predatory smile, jarring Hawke from his thoughts. "I'm not staying here, sweat heart. I'm going back, and I'm taking all of you, Ellie and Cadry included, to my ship. I'm going to watch your back, and you are going to watch ours, and try and make sense of what's going on. At times like this, such awesome people as us should stick together, and the eye of the storm is the safest place you can be."

.

* * *

.

Ten minutes later Hawke stood in the shed, supporting himself against the worktable and staring at the half-finished window shutters. His thoughts were running in all directions like a brothel on fire.

He was so eager to leave Vantage behind, so curious to find out what was going on, so tempted to return to his old life again. But Ellie… What would she do on a pirate ship? And what would Cadry say? Would she even want to come? Should she come? Was it safer than staying in Vantage? How bad exactly was that war in Orlais and could it spill over to Ferelden?

After a while Isabela joined him in the shed, and Ellie trailed after her clutching her kitten to her chest. Hawke considered telling the girl to go play or something, but then dismissed the idea. He hated talking down to her. If she didn't interrupt, she was usually welcome to stay and listen to any adult conversations she liked.

"I put Cadry to bed," Isabela said, sitting up on the worktable and facing him. "Looks like she flaked out around the time your daughter joined us."

"She's your daughter too," Hawke heard himself say. "She doesn't bite."

"I know, but you raised her," Isabela sighed. She crossed her ankles and picked some invisible lint from her thigh. "I will need some time, Hawke. I meant what I said though, that I'd like to take all of you with me to the _Wavedancer_. I know that a long time has passed since you last saw me, and that I'm messed up in my head, and I'm… Well, you know."

Hawke cast her a sidelong glance. The way she was sitting, he could barely stay his hands from reaching out to her. He remembered her request, however, and just grabbed the edge of the table tighter.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "What happened to you, Seabird? What are you not telling me?"

Isabela lowered her eyes and started nibbling at her nails. She mumbled something, and suddenly a big, fat tear rolled down her cheek. Blast and damnation, how he hated when his queen cried. He timidly reached out his hand towards her lap, and Isabela watched it like a snake, but she didn't say anything. Hawke closed his hands over hers, and she hiccupped.

"Is it this bad with everyone or just me?" he asked.

Isabela removed one hand from his grasp to wipe away the tear and then put it on top of Hawke's. "Not everyone," she said in a tight voice. "Just men. I'm mostly alright when it's me doing the touching, and in fights and the usual shoves and touches on the ship, but whenever it feels the least bit suggestive, I freeze up and the guy risks a shiner."

"These years have not been exactly a party, Hawke. I think I got more scars and bruises than in all those years in Kirkwall combined. Zevran can massage my shoulders a bit and apply some salves on the back, but that's about it. After a particularly stressful voyage I'd just… Look for different kind of company, I guess," she explained still staring in her lap.

Hawke didn't know what to say, so for once he bit down on his tongue and just caressed the backs of her gloved hands. Not really thinking, he opened the buckles and slowly peeled the gloves off. He felt Isabela stiffen, her breathing becoming more rapid and shallow, but she still didn't say anything. Maybe it really was a matter of time and patience.

Maker, he was bad at patience, had always been. He had never had any tolerance for weak people, hated to look after fools and misguided blood mages and small children. At best, it was a responsibility that could turn into love, but it was still annoying and unfulfilling in itself.

But now it was his Seabird, his queen of blades and contraband who was so hurt and damaged, and messed up. And even then she still went on, shrugging it off like it's no big deal, simply turning her sights to female company only, climbing her way to the top of the Armada's ladder, breaking into a Crow prison, kicking a magister's ass and then coming to find him, Hawke, to, hah, protect him. Knowing full well that their previous relationship was largely horizontal or against-the-wall. Take that away, and the gossamer threads that remained were broken and sullied, weighed down by their mutual betrayals, guilt and fear. She knew that too.

"So why come to me if you can't bear my touch?" he asked silently. "What is it that you think I can help you with?"

Isabela winced, then shrugged.

"Potions. Fighting. Smuggling. But it's not really about me, Hawke. The Armada is closing its ranks, even if we're not yet sure who the enemy is. And I want you inside, you and Ellie."

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

"I missed you," she whispered. "So just tell me, Hawke, do I still have a chance with you?"

Yes, silly, Hawke wanted to laugh. A thousand times yes, because you're smart and beautiful and deadly, and because you're the mother of my daughter, and because, even if I never get to touch you again, I love you, and I'm afraid I always will.

But the rational part of him, the part that knew Isabela, still refused to believe her, still looked for traps and half-truths.

"In Kirkwall… That first night… Didn't you say love wasn't for you?" he asked, holding her hands and carefully watching her face.

"I know what I said. And I know why I said it. But you were right — I wasn't afraid of love, I was afraid of being loved," she said, and then flashed him a crooked smile. "Over the years you have proven to be the most resilient bastard that I have ever known. You've seen my worst and still been there in the morning. If I didn't break your heart years ago, then I think it is quite safe now."

"With your sudden fear of manly manliness, I'm more concerned for my nose or kneecaps," Hawke chuckled.

"Why sudden? It's a healthy self-preservation instinct, a sensible bodily reaction to nine months of nausea and a near death."

"Then lucky for you I have managed to get my hands on a whole library dedicated to contraception spells from the Ferelden's Circle Tower, and I've had two boring years to collect all the local legends and home remedy recipes. I have at least three ideas how to improve Anders' procedure. Really, I'd be the most useful guy in town if they were less skittish around mages!"

"No, but seriously, Hawke. You might have to arm yourself with three more years' worth of patience."

"Well, you seem to come and go in three year periods anyway, I'm almost used to it by now."

"With weird green gaps in the sky, I hope it won't take that long."

On impulse, Hawke raised his hand and cupped the Rivaini's cheek. She flinched slightly but her eyes remained on his.

"Know what? I think we might yet manage one proper lovemaking before the world ends. And you know why, Seabird? Because for once you're on my side of the barricade — because you _want_ to be here with me and make it work, and that should count for at least a couple of years."

Isabela laughed, and a twinkle lit her golden cat eyes.

"So you still want me, tiger?" she teased with a soft, incredulous smile.

Hawke grinned.

"I like big boobs, I cannot lie."

This time it was Isabela who leaned forward, capturing his lips in hers, deepening the kiss in seconds and grasping on to his hands as if her life depended on it. She might press her knees together, pause in the weirdest of moments, hesitate to put her hands on his shoulders, but it was still her; the heady mix of a thousand smells, the sea, the dust from the road, the dried squid shreds and the lip balm she carried in her pockets, the sweat, the wine, and the sandwich.

Ellie squealed and ran into the house, the kitten blessedly released and making a beige, blurry line for the hedge.

Not knowing where to put his hands, overwhelmed and afraid to hurt her, Hawke gently ran his fingers through the Rivaini's hair, ghosted his hand over her shoulders and sides. Stepping closer and sideways so as not to cage her against the table, Hawke lost all sense in reality as the old and the new twined together.

Her skin drier, her corseted waist smaller, tiny wrinkles around her eyes and pale new scars on her arms. Ten years later, in a shed near the Frostback Mountains, she took his breath away just as much as when Hawke had first seen her in the Hanged Man, two men grovelling at her feet and a third held at daggerpoint.

Then she had been only a skilled and beautiful rougue, and he had been just a cocky Fereldan upstart looking for a way out of the slums. The years had cast them about as a storm, and they hadn't emerged as the best of people. Nevertheless, they were good to each other, even if Hawke sometimes pushed too hard and Isabela sometimes ran too soon. But she needed him to push now, and she wasn't going to run away this time.

Now she was… she was… Hawke had no words, but for her, he would be the most patient man in Thedas, for her, he would wait and wait and _wait_. Pushing _could_ be done in tiny baby steps and with lots of creativity.

Maybe in time he would get both lustful and loving parts of Isabela back together, but until then he was incredibly grateful to all the gods that she was back in his life again, that she wanted him back in hers.

Suddenly, nothing seemed impossible anymore.

.

.

.

* * *

The next morning, as the first rays of sun kissed the snow-white pinnacles of the Frostback Mountains, they left, a strange little company of a pirate, an apostate mage, an excited miller's daughter and a sleepy little girl with her kitten.

Life had prepared new opportunities and conditions, and a new story was possibly emerging. For a while, it might follow their paths and borrow their names, the tales of their adventures reaching the rebels and the Seekers of Truth; then countless bards and patrons in countless taverns across the land would twist the story in amazing shapes and patterns, told and retold in the years to come.

The mage and the pirate didn't care how those stories ended. They didn't even care that there were stories about them, because for them, that was life. For them there would be no sailing off in the sunset, no settling down for a peaceful life, no sentimental happily ever after — just the glorious knowledge that they were alive, free and together as the storm hits the horizon.

There would be fewer injuries among the pirate's crew, less silks and slaves for the Tevinter magisters, less lyrium for the templars and more potions for everyone. A miller's daughter would get a taste of the world outside her native village, and a pirate's daughter would get her mum. There would be spells, blasts, backstabs, poisons, lock-picking, cheating at cards and general swindling, and the more the better.

Calmly sailing off in the sunset just wasn't for them.


End file.
